


don't hold this war inside

by weavesunlight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weavesunlight/pseuds/weavesunlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t mean to listen in to Stiles’ conversation, but Stiles is close and never quite learned the art of subtlety. He has one hand pressed against the back of the jeep, putting all his weight against it. Like maybe it could hold him up. Like he doesn’t trust his own legs. “Yeah, Dad. Scott’s got my back. I’ll....” he trails off like he was going to lie and thought better of it. “I’m working on it.... Yeah. I’ll call.... Love you.”</p><p>He runs his fingers through his hair as Scott makes his way to the passenger seat. Stiles looks tired, still. Worn out and stretched thin. “You want me to drive?” Scott asks.</p><p>“I got it,” Stiles says, like it’s the one thing he’s sure of. “I got it.”</p><p>or; the one where Scott and Stiles don't talk until they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't hold this war inside

**Author's Note:**

> Canon Divergent prior to De-Void. They get rid of the Nogitsune. Allison's alive. All's.... not quite well

Scott’s phone rings in the middle of the night. He’s just on the edges of sleep, so it’s easy enough to blink against the brightness of his phone and say, “Stiles?”

He can’t help the concern in his voice--the last time Stiles called him at three in the morning still fresh in his mind.

“Scott. I--“ He doesn’t really need to say more. There’s something almost broken in Stiles’ voice, something needy and desperate and final. Like when Stiles said, “I miss her,” for the first time to Scott, back when they were eight. It was September, and they’d been sitting under the oak tree in Scott’s back yard, and Stiles had said it like a secret. Like he wasn’t supposed to. He’d needed Scott to just be there, then. He needs it now, and two-thirty in the morning doesn’t matter when you’re used to running for your life most nights.

“I’m coming.”

* * *

Scott expected a lot of things. He didn’t expect Stiles sitting on the edge of his bed with a half packed duffle bag, playing with his fingers like he doesn’t quite know if they’re real anymore. His walls are empty now, the tangle of strings and mess of photos and maps and newspapers balled up in the trash. It looks oddly empty. The room stretches bigger than Scott knows it is. He stands in the doorway, unsure if he should move because Stiles hasn’t acknowledged him. Hasn’t moved at all really. Just keeps wringing his hands, tapping them on his thighs.

Stiles is touch: hands on shoulders, arms brushing, affectionate scuffs of the head. Hugs, sometimes. Sleeping with tangled limbs and Stiles ending up half on top of him, like a very persistent octopus. He doesn’t touch Scott now.

Stiles looks up at him, eventually. “I can’t do it, Scott. I’m....” He drifts off like he’s trying to find the words. Or maybe he’s afraid.  “I’m leaving.”

It sounds final. Scott wonders if he wants to come back. He moves from the door, sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed. “Where?”

“I don’t know, man. Not here? I just....” He spreads his hands wide, half shrugs. 

“Yeah.” And Scott can’t really say anything else, because there aren’t really words for it, he knows. It’s a dark and twisted kind of thing, possession. It takes you and shakes up your insides, and you don’t know what’s real, what’s not. You don’t know if your own hands will obey you. He knows that. He knows what waking up and not being in control feels like. He knows the smell of someone else’ blood under your nails. He knows. He puts his hand over Stiles’, makes him stop fidgeting. Lightly presses each finger, hoping counting will help ground him.

He keeps holding Stiles’ hands until his fingers stop trembling and he looks up, asks, “Can I come?”

And maybe that’s what Stiles was looking for the entire time. Something in his face changes--relief maybe-- but Scott doesn’t want to make assumptions. He and Stiles have been having silent conversations since they were ten, but after this? He wants to let Stiles speak for himself. Stiles nods. 

* * *

He texts Allison and Kira and Derek from the passenger seat of the jeep when they’re on route 99.

_Stiles and I taking a road trip. Call if you need me. Don’t know when we’ll be back._

Derek texts him back first, stilted and perfectly punctuated. Kira asks how Stiles is doing; Scott says _better_ and hopes it isn’t too much of a lie. 

* * *

He calls his mom from the California state line. He makes Stiles call the sheriff too. She picks up after three rings. “Scott?”

“Hey, mom.”

“Are you okay?” She asks, concerned. She always is. Always trying to make sure he’s alright. He scuffs his foot against the pavement.

“Nah, Mom. I’m fine. Just.... making sure Stiles is.”

Scott really doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t gone. If Stiles hadn’t called him.... He doesn’t want to think about Stiles just leaving, driving god knows where alone. He wouldn’t, Scott thinks. He’d tell me. And Scott wants to believe it.

“Do you two know when you’re coming back?" 

“Whenever he’s ready,” he says, and it sounds more final than he intends. Scott’s not leaving him, not now. Not when he just got back, keeps looking like he’s terrified to leave again, like he doesn’t know who he is. Scott wants to hold onto Stiles, to wash the stains out from the inside, make him feel clean and good again.

“It’s good that you’re looking out for him. I love you, sweetheart. Keep us posted.” She’s worried, he knows. Worried for both of them. Worried for the sheriff too, probably. But she trusts him. Always has.

“I will. Love you too.” 

He doesn’t mean to listen in to Stiles’ conversation, but Stiles is close and never quite learned the art of subtlety. He has one hand pressed against the back of the jeep, putting all his weight against it. Like maybe it could hold him up. Like he doesn’t trust his own legs. “Yeah, Dad. Scott’s got my back. I’ll....” he trails off like he was going to lie and thought better of it. “I’m working on it.... Yeah. I’ll call.... Love you.”

He runs his fingers through his hair as Scott makes his way to the passenger seat. Stiles looks tired, still. Worn out and stretched thin. “You want me to drive?” Scott asks.

“I got it,” Stiles says, like it’s the one thing he’s sure of. “I got it.”

* * *

The thing about him and Stiles is that they don’t have to talk. Scott can stare out of the window while one of Stiles’ endless mix tapes drones on through the shitty speakers of the jeep and Stiles’ fingers clench too tightly on the wheel. Stiles has been playing the music just shy of too loud, rolls the windows down. Scott lets him. He can check the route on his phone even though he knows there are thousands of miles to go on the 1-40 W. He snaps a picture of a passing exit sign, sends it to his mom.

He’d asked where they’re going and Stiles went oddly still before he said, “East, I wanna see the Atlantic.” Scott hadn’t argued.

A song comes on, and it’s one of the ones they both hate that Stiles puts on his mixes because as he explained once, “It’s nice to subject yourself to something you hate every once in a while, Scotty. Gotta remember why you like the good stuff." 

Scott rolled his eyes then and he rolls them now, presses the skip button because neither of them need a reminder of the things that make them angry. Sometimes you just need to enjoy for enjoyment’s sake.  Stiles looks at him gratefully and almost smiles for the first time in a month and a half. Scott smiles back and Stiles hits him gently on the shoulder.

Scott thinks maybe, maybe, this Stiles isn’t running away.

* * *

Allison calls when they’re an hour outside of Albuquerque.

“Everyone’s pissed at you,” she says, bluntly.

Scott laughs, turning down the radio with a free hand. “I figured.” He really wasn’t expecting anything else. Stiles glances at him confused. He gestures at Stiles, it’s Allison, and turns back to the window. 

“You can’t just leave, Scott. Not with all this mess.”

“Let someone else handle it. This is more important.” He hadn’t thought he’d be able to leave, but things had settled down. Or, at least, settled down for them. Which is probably as good as it’s going to get. A few scattered months of peace before something big and terrifying tries to kill everything again. 

“I don’t know if it’s good that you’re saying that.” She says it half like a joke, but she knows as well as he does how hard it is for him to leave. If it was anyone except for Stiles, he probably couldn’t. 

“Me either. Call if it gets too bad?” He doesn’t want to leave them hanging, doesn’t want his pack without their alpha, but he thinks he needs this as much as Stiles does, a clean break. A vacation, if you want to call a midnight planned trip to who-knows-where a vacation.

“We’ll be fine. This’ll be good for you. It’s just not... It’s not easy,” Allison says.

“None of this is easy. I don’t think it ever will be.” He taps his fingers on the door handle, watches desert pass by.

“I don’t know how you do it, Scott.”

“Me either,” he says, and it’s true. Because he has to.  Or because he needs to. Or because people are relying on him. Or one of ten thousand other reasons. It’s duty, but it’s more than that. It’s responsibility; one he’d never thought he’d have to take on.

She’s quiet for a minute before she says, “You can let go sometimes, you know?”

And Scott.... Scott doesn’t know what to say. Because he can’t let go. He’s got people he has to help. He can’t take time for himself. He’s leaving because that’s what Stiles needs.

Stiles turns to him after he hangs up, one hand still tapping on the wheel, the other turning the volume back up. “Trouble at home?” 

Scott gives a half noncommittal shrug. He knows Stiles would turn back if he thought they needed Scott. He doesn’t want to force him to do that. “Nothing they can’t handle without us.”

* * *

It’s been seventeen hours and fourteen minutes and Stiles hasn’t stopped driving. They stopped once for gas, once for coffee and energy drinks, once more for more gas and McDonald’s, but Stiles always refused Scott’s offers of taking over the wheel. He holds onto the keys, metal digging into his palm, every time Scott asks. Scott knows pain is real, knows how it can keep you grounded when everything else is spinning.

“Dude, come on. You gotta sleep. There’s a motel at the next exit.”

“I’m fine, Scott.” He’s not, and both of them know it’s a lie. He’s running on too much caffeine, and six months of sleep deprivation, and stubbornness. His tank’s been empty for months, and he keeps on going. 

“I just don’t want you to pass out and kill us, drive us into a ditch or something.”

“I wouldn’t. If we were going to die in a spectacular car accident, I’d at least get a couple of flips in there. Maybe run into a semi. Ditches are so passé.”

But when the sign comes up for the exit, he takes the turn. Scott counts it as a win.

* * *

“Hey, Scott. You get the bags. I’ll check us in.”

Scott just nods and shrugs and throws out the cans and bottles that have been collecting in the backseat before he calls his mom. 

“How are you doing, honey? I got five minutes left on my break.”

“We’re good. Just outside of Amarillo, we stopped in for the night.”

“And Stiles?”

Scott scuffs his foot, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Mom. I think he’s handling it, but....” _he’s not. He’s good at hiding. He doesn’t talk as much now, Mom, and you know how weird that is. He goes still sometimes, or he’ll constantly keep moving. He keeps staring at his hands like he doesn’t know if they’re his. He keeps staring at me like he’s sorry, like he wonders why I’m not afraid of him._

He doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t want to worry her more, and he knows whatever he says will get back to the sheriff. Scott doesn’t want him worried either.

“Yeah.... I know,” she says.

“Are you okay? Everyone else?”

“All quiet on the home front, Scott. Just worried.”

“Yeah. Me too.” His phone beeps. “Hang on a sec, Mom.”

It blinks with a text message from Stiles.

_room 106_

“Okay, I gotta go. Love you, Mom.”

He grabs his duffle. It’s filled with Stiles’ clothes and his toothbrush from Stiles’ bathroom, a phone charger he picked up from that first gas station, and a dog-eared Austen novel of his that was on Stiles’ nightstand. It’s his but it’s not quite, a bag full of things that don’t seem to belong to him even though they feel like they’re his. But Scott thinks any distinction between what is Stiles’ and what is his disappeared somewhere between Scott forgetting his swimsuit once and never returning it and the fourth grade blood oath incident and the Great Movie Trade of ’09 where Scott had delicately avoided Stiles pushing _Star Wars_ onto him, but ended up with another copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_.

 

* * *

The room has a single queen. Stiles comes out of the bathroom, a smear of toothpaste on his mouth, hair all wet and ruffled, pajama pants already slung low on his hips.

“Only one they had left,” Stiles says, and Scott ignores how his heart skips a beat because Stiles needs him to.

“Not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed, man.” Stiles nods and Scott shucks off his shirt, throwing it in his bag. He ignores the spider web of angry pink scars across Stiles’ back and down his left arm where Kira had burned the nogitsune out for good, because Stiles needs that too. 

“Lichtenberg figure,” Stiles had said after he’d woken up, touching his shoulder lightly. He’d frowned, like he was trying to make it into a joke. “I was going to get scarred soon enough, everyone out to kill us. Least it looks cool.”

Too soon, Scott had thought. But he thinks the scars the nogitsune left inside Stiles are worse. 

He sits on the bed and throws the covers back and lets Stiles slip in next to him. He rolls over so Stiles’ back is pressed up against his stomach. It’s not the kind of accidental sleeping-on-top of each other they’ve done after movie marathons or pre-finals cram sessions where they’re too tired to sort out whose limbs are whose. It’s intention and closeness and touch, and Scott is suddenly aware of how warm Stiles’ back is, the dusting of moles across his shoulder blades, and how little is between them.

“Is this okay?”

Stiles just laces their fingers together and pulls Scott’s arms around him. 

“More than okay.”

* * *

Scott wakes up to Stiles’ face in his neck, and he thinks there might be a bit of drool, but Stiles is sound asleep, and that might have to be enough. He doesn’t want to disturb Stiles--he needs more sleep than he’s been getting--so Scott just settles into the mattress and rubs a hand up and down Stiles’ back, wonders if there’s a diner in town and how good their pancakes are. He wonders if there are wolves in this town, if they’ll be able to tell what he is, if they’ll wonder why there’s an alpha without pack. Scott is suddenly almost stupidly aware of how young he is, how he can’t vote but he’s got a town relying on him, a town he’s responsible for.

He wonders if he could go back in time, if he’d push Stiles away. He wonders if Stiles would just barge back into his life anyway, because that’s who Stiles is. He wonders if he could hurt Stiles enough that he’d hate him, maybe then he’d leave him alone-- 

Stiles snuffles into his chest, shifts and blinks sleepily up at him, chin resting on Scott’s chest. “Hey, Scotty.”

“Morning,” Scott says, and Stiles rolls over onto his back, legs tangling in the sheets. He stretches out, all long limbs, and because he’s Stiles and because it’s Scott and this is what they do, he looks over and grins and says, “I’m feeling pancakes. You good with pancakes?”

* * *

The thing about him and Stiles is that they don’t have to talk. They can sit across from each other, Scott stealing sips of Stiles’ coffee and Stiles picking Scott’s bacon off his plate with long fingers, grinning like he’s daring Scott to stop him. He puts a piece of buttered toast on Scott’s plate as payment, slathered with strawberry jam.

Stiles doesn’t have to tell him, “Thanks for staying with me. For coming.” because it’s in the brush of their elbows, a half fond smile.

Scott doesn’t have to tell him, “You know I always would. I need you to be okay.” because it’s in the bump of their shoulders, a roll of the eyes.

But maybe he should.

* * *

The next night, Stiles wakes up screaming and thrashing. He nearly knocks Scott in the eye with his elbow before Scott can wrap an arm around him and say, “Hey, hey, you’re here. You’re with me.” He stops struggling against Scott’s firm grip but he’s still trembling, panting heavily. 

Stiles’ back is slick with sweat, the grey t-shirt soaked through, and Scott slips his hands under it, yanks it over Stiles’ head, throws it to the floor. He grabs one of Stiles’ shirts from his bag and a towel from the bathroom. Dries him off.

“Here,” he says, pressing the dry cotton into Stiles’ hands. Stiles takes it wordlessly, slips it on. He curls into himself, hands shaking. 

Scott wraps himself around Stiles, presses his nose into the back of his neck, and holds him until he feels steady in Scott’s arms. He’s a constant stream of _it’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re here. You’re real. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay._  

He says _I forgive you_ , because Stiles wants to hear it. He says _I don’t blame you_ , because he doesn’t, because Stiles needs to hear it again, and again, and again, until he believes it.   

Scott waits until Stiles’ breathing evens out and his heartbeat settles before he brushes his lips against the nape of Stiles’ neck and lets himself close his eyes. 

They don’t worry about separate beds after that.

* * *

They stop at one of those all-purpose rest stations outside of Little Rock. Stiles kicks back his feet on the dash and leans into the seat.

“You don’t need anything?” Scott asks, because he needs to make sure, but Stiles just shakes his head and closes his eyes. He’d found a pair of sunglasses in the glove box around Henryetta. Cheap, plastic, bright purple knockoff Wayfarers that Scott pushes up to Stiles’ forehead. Stiles wrinkles his nose, bats Scott’s hand away. “I’m good, dude. Swear.”

Scott comes back with a liter of pop and a bag of trail mix for him anyway. He slides into the passenger seat and opens a bag of Cheetos, grabbing a handful before Stiles is leaning over him, rummaging in the bag.

“Thought you said you didn’t want anything.”

Stiles just grins at him, holding the one Cheeto he managed to snag triumphantly. “You should know by now that I’m an excellent liar.” He pops it into his mouth, grinning.

“Which is why I brought you something,” Scott says and throws the trail mix at Stiles’ face. It hits his nose and Stiles makes a show of wincing dramatically and looking affronted.

“I want yours. As an apology.” he says, and crawls on top of Scott to try to grab the bag. Scott holds it away with one hand, the other on Stiles’ chest, gently keeping him away. But Stiles fights dirty and digs his fingers behind Scott’s knees, grinning when he yelps. And for a moment they’re fifteen again, fighting over who gets to control the remote, tussling around in the back yard, their biggest worries grass stains and algebra quizzes. 

Except this time, when Stiles is on top of him and their lips are too close, Stiles pauses for half a breath, and Scott’s about to push him off and say he’s won, but Stiles is kissing him, lips soft and instant. Stiles tastes like Cheetos and something familiar and Scott forgets about everything except Stiles’ hands in his hair and kissing back.

* * *

They stop at a gas station, just outside of Maryville, Tennessee. Stiles slips in a pack of condoms and a bottle of lube in between the bags of Doritos and cherry Cokes and sour gummi worms and Scott finds himself blushing and ducking his head when the cashier smiles knowingly at him. Stiles’ arm is around his waist.

“Think you’re getting lucky tonight?” Scott says as they leave. It’s half a challenge, half flirtation. They’d fallen into desperate make outs and groping and morning breath kisses. And this? It was just a natural extension of sleeping tangled together and knowing each other’s insides. Scott plus Stiles equals this. Like that first half-hesitant kiss was all the permission they needed to want more. Scott doesn’t know how it never occurred to him before.

“I know I am,” Stiles says, pressing Scott against the jeep and kissing him quick and dirty. He rolls his hips down once, and it’s not enough to get either of them really hard, but there’s a groan in Scott’s throat anyway. Stiles kisses the corner of Scott’s jaw and grins. “I’m irresistible.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this, Stiles?” he asks, because he has to know.

Stiles grins cocky and sure and so, so normal. “I am so sure about this.” He drags Scott down into the bed, flips them over. He kisses down Scott’s neck, and Scott tilts his head back, rolling his hips up. Stiles rests their foreheads together before he stops, all confidence gone, stutters-- “Scott, I--“ 

Scott smiles up at him, softly. “Hey, hey, it’s you.” He cups Stiles’ face in both hands, kisses him gently. “We’re here. We’re awake. I promise.”

Stiles shakes his head, so minutely Scott thinks if it was anyone else he’d miss it. He rolls them over, rests squarely on Stiles’ hips. Scott kisses Stiles’ forehead, his nose, runs his hands through Stiles’ hair. “You’re here. No one else.” And Stiles gives him a nearly unreadable look. It’s part pity, part relief. Part something Scott doesn’t have the words to describe. The happy side of sadness, maybe. Or homesickness.

Scott kisses Stiles’ shoulder, tongues over the scars. “Which way do you want to do this?” he asks between kisses.

“Can I fuck you?” It’s half stuttered and desperate, breathy and cautious. Scott nods and spreads his legs and Stiles kisses him, hard.

* * *

The thing about him and Stiles is that they don’t need to say I love you. It’s one of those facts. Stiles likes peanut butter and potato chip sandwiches. Scott thinks they’re weird. Stiles still carries an inhaler on him, just in case. Scott still hasn’t see Star Wars. Stiles broke his arm trying to help Scott, stuck out on middle of the the monkey bars in fifth grade.

Scott loves Stiles. Stiles loves Scott.

But Scott says it anyway, because this--laying naked in a motel bed, the smell of their come heavy in Scott’s nose--doesn’t change anything. Stiles tangles their fingers together, brushes his thumb across Scott’s knuckles and says, “I know.” He leans over, kisses Scott on the mouth, once, and then again, bumps Scott’s cheek with his nose and smiles, a bright shining thing that Scott hasn’t seen in a while. He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I love you too.”

* * *

Scott doesn’t know when staring at trees whipping by darkened into sleep, his face pressed against the glass window of the jeep. He does know that he wakes up to Stiles’ hand rough on his shoulder and a feeling of dread he can’t quite shake.

“Dude? Hey, Scott. Wake up.”

(the nogitsune stabbing Stiles’ stomach. the nogitsune cradling Scott’s face, hands red and sticky with Stiles’ blood. it kisses Scott’s forehead with Stiles’ lips and Scott thinks he can hear Stiles’ screaming.)

“Yeah?” he says, and takes a moment to remember that the nogitsune is gone, for good this time. That Stiles is here and Stiles is Stiles and they’re three thousand miles away from anything that’s tried to hurt them.

(he wants you, you know. he needs you. it said. Scott didn’t. not then.)

Scott’s gripping the door handle too hard and it’s digging into his palm and he still likes the pain keeping him grounded.

“Hope you’re dreaming about me, whimpering like that,” Stiles pauses, glances at the road before he looks at Scott in that oddly calculating way he does when he’s trying to assess, diagnose, _fix_. The one where he’s trying to see if his joke landed and lightened the mood enough. It didn’t, and Stiles can see that, whether by his natural comedic air or by virtue of knowing Scott so well. He softens his grin, finds Scott’s free hand and squeezes. “Y’okay?”

(pity you can’t hear him in here, Scott. then you’d know.)

“Fine, I’m fine.” Scott says, stretching out his hand, rolling his neck. 

“You’re not,” Stiles says. “We’re not.” But he doesn’t push, just turns up the radio and keeps holding Scott’s hand as they speed down the highway.

* * *

Stiles drives clear across to Charleston because, he says, “I miss the ocean.” 

They find a beach in Sullivan’s Island, park the jeep and walk through sweet grass and dunes. The beach is almost empty, just white expanses of sand with a few sparse tourists. Some kids are flying kites by running through the waves. There’s a girl doing cartwheels through the sea gulls. Stiles half jogs ahead of Scott, rolls up his jeans and stands in the water. Scott catches up eventually, stands with him and lets the water lap at their ankles.

After a long silence, Stiles says, “My mom used to take me to the beach.” 

Scott finds Stiles’ hand, holds it. “I know.”

She took him once too, packed them both in the car with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and juice boxes and SPF 35. She sat in a white beach chair and read a novel while they built sand castles and threw salt water at each other. It was one of the last times she took them anywhere.

“She had family here once,” Stiles says, and he starts leading Scott down the beach, out a little further into the ocean. 

“I didn’t know that.”

Stiles just shrugs and says “I haven’t seen them in years” and leaves it at that. Scott had figured--the Stilinskis rarely had visitors and almost never went on vacation--but he doesn’t say anything and Stiles is quiet for a while. They keep walking, water up to mid calf now, even as the waves recede, before he says, “She wanted to take me here, to visit them, before she got really sick and sometimes she’d talk about the ocean for days and once, early on, she told me she was going to the store and she came back hours later, with her hair all wet and I was terrified man. I was fucking terrified.”

Scott turns to him then, and hugs him, fiercely, tightly.

* * *

Scott wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. He finds Stiles in the jeep with his hands tight on the wheel. The music’s blasting loud, too loud. Scott knocks on a half cracked window and Stiles nods. 

“Hey,” he says, crawling into the passenger seat. Stiles doesn’t answer, just grips the steering wheel tighter. He’s tense, a compressed spring, like if he lets go he’ll expand too fast and hurt something--or someone. Scott puts a hand on his shoulder, barely brushing his fingers against Stiles’ neck, taking his pain. Like this, Scott can feel the darkness, the guilt, the lead-heavy ache that’s weighted Stiles’ bones.

He doesn’t expect Stiles to tense and shift his shoulder, inching away. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” 

“Why?” he asks, pulling his hand back. He lets Stiles have his space.

“It hurts you.” Stiles’ answer is short, clipped. “When I--“

“It wasn’t you, it _wasn’t_.”

Stiles looks at him, exasperated. “I know that man, I fucking-- that’s not the problem.” Stiles shifts in his seat, taps the steering wheel with his fingers. Stares into the empty glass of the motel room.

“What is?” Scott reaches out, tries to put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, to comfort him, reassure him, the way that Stiles always does for him, but he shies away before Scott can extend his hand. He doesn’t look at Scott when he speaks.

“You know why it chose me, Scott? It thought we were the same. And that-- god, I don’t want it to be me. I don’t want to be _that._ ” Then quieter. Softer, like if he says it quiet enough it doesn’t have to be true. “I thought I did. Back when it was in my head. It felt good. Even...”

“Yeah?”

Stiles still can’t look him in the eye, keeps talking like what he’s saying is shameful, secret. “When I took your pain. It-- everything was so fucking clear. I could see well. Smell better. God, it knew. It knew you’d take it all, counted on it.” He pauses, looks over for the first time. “Why d’you gotta be so fucking good all the time, Scotty?”

“Sorry?”

“Nah.” Stiles shakes his head. He’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t act like-- god, Scott, you don’t need to hide it. You don’t-- you don’t need to be strong with me. You can’t hold shit in all the time.” Stiles is looking at him now, staring at him in that pinning, intense way.

“I have to.” There’s no other answer, not really. People will die if he doesn’t--people _have_ died. He can’t let that happen. He can’t. 

Stiles throws his hands up in the air, half laughs, “Dude, we’re seventeen. We’re supposed to be worrying about prom and getting caught making out behind the bleachers and lacrosse. Not the fate of the entire fucking town. You’re not supposed to have to do anything except for math homework.” 

Scott doesn’t know what to say. He has to be strong. He has to lead. He has a pack and a town to protect. Scott reaches out, turns down the music. It’s getting too loud for him to concentrate.

Stiles’ voice is soft when he says, “I don’t need you to be an alpha, Scott. I need you to be my best friend. I need….“

“What?” he asks, because Stiles is gesturing in a way that means there’s more, if Scott pokes at him right. “What do you need?” He needs to know, he needs to be able to help Stiles, whatever way he can. 

Stiles stops making half aborted sounds and sighs. “I don’t know, man; you can lay off with the concerned eyebrows.” 

“No, Stiles. I want you to be okay. I want to _help_. Tell me.”

Stiles looks away, slaps his hands on the wheel before he looks over at Scott again. His voice is tense, somewhere closer to yelling that not.  “I need you to tell me when you’re hurt. I don’t care if you think you’re protecting me or if you can handle it. I want to worry Scott.” He pauses, takes a breath. Looks back out the window, like it’s easier to spill his secrets when he doesn’t have to look Scott in the eye. “It wasn’t just the pain you took.... it was your pain too. And I didn’t know. I had no fucking idea, Scotty. And that hurt. I’m your _best friend._ You’re supposed to tell me that shit, and yeah, I guess it’s not being dumped or failing a test, but it’s gotta be _something_.”

Scott waits until Stiles looks at him again before he says, quietly, “You don’t tell me things either.” Stiles hadn’t told Scott any of this. Scott guessed, yeah, but he hadn't  _known._

“Yeah, well you’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like being Beacon Hills’s very own Superman.” Stiles looks exasperated and tired and so, so young and god, Scott never wanted him to go through any of this.

“I want to know Stiles. I want to be able to help.” 

Stiles sighs, full body sinks into the seat, kicking his feet out. “How can you help, Scott? You don’t have a magic guilt-drain. People are dead because of me. You got _hurt_ because of me.” He sounds defeated. 

“It wasn’t you Stiles. It was a nogitsune.” Because even now, weeks later, Stiles still talks about it like he was there. Like he was at fault for something else worming its way into his brain, using his body.

Stiles is quiet for a long while, biting his lip and the corner of his nails. He turns and looks at Scott. “I let it in. I let it take over. It’s all on me.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t-- it could have just done it anyway.”

“Does it matter?” Stiles asks, and it’s not a question that Scott can answer. “I gave up, Scott. I gave up and I can’t take them looking at me like they’re sorry this happened to me. It’s my fault. I wasn’t a victim.”

Scott reaches out again, and this time Stiles doesn’t shy away from Scott’s hand, comforting on his shoulder. “But you were, Stiles. And it’s not pity, it’s concern. They care about you. I care about you. Closing off isn’t going to change that. There’s nothing you could have done.” He shifts closer to Stiles, pulling him into a hug. Stiles wraps his arms around Scott. “It was in your head,” he whispers, one finger brushing the back of Stiles’ neck gently, trying to get Stiles to trust him, to believe him. “You did the best you could. We’re all just doing the best we can.” 

“Yeah, some of us do better than others,” Stiles says, and maybe it’s a little bit bitter, a little too harsh and dry. He pulls away.

“You’re doing fine--” Scott stops, corrects himself. “Well, I don’t think any of us are doing fine. But we’re okay. Right? We’re okay?”

Stiles sighs “You know, when I left, I just wanted to get away. I just wanted to feel like I was myself again. Maybe reminding myself of my mom was part of that, maybe if I came here I’d remember who I’m supposed to be.” He stops, runs his hand through his hair.  “I don’t know. It was kind of fucking stupid.”

“Are you?” 

“I don’t know. I’m still not sure who I am.”

“I know.” And Stiles is looking at him like he’s a bit of an idiot and Scott can’t help but smile a little.  “You’re Stiles Stilinski. You like watermelon bubblegum and get angry when I don’t get your Star Wars references. You stay up too late and you bite all your erasers off of your pencils.” Stiles is smiling then, just enough for Scott to keep going. “You still carry my inhaler around and you want to help people, not hurt them. You'd follow me anywhere and that’s kind of fucking terrifying.” Stiles nods, just barely, glances over at Scott. “You’re my best friend,” he says simply, because if he had to distill Stiles and everything he is into one idea, one role, it would be his best friend. And he’s something more, something Scott feels like he doesn’t deserve. “And I love you.”

Stiles looks straight ahead, slaps his hand on the wheel. He turns back to Scott with a grin. “Yeah, yeah I guess I am.”

“So do you wanna go home?” 

“Where’s home, Scott?”

Scott looks at him, honestly. “I don’t know,” he says, before he thinks better of it. “With you.”

And Stiles is kissing him, hands fisting in his hair, desperate and needy and rough. He pulls away, kisses Scott again, gentle. An apology. And again. And again. Feather light kisses across Scott’s chin, his jaw. Until Scott’s taking Stiles’ face in his hands, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. “Hey,” he says. “Hey. It’s okay.”

Stiles frowns, just slightly, oddly fond before he says, “I love you too, Scotty.”

“C’mon. Let’s get back to bed,” he says, and Stiles nods, squeezes his hand once. 

It’s soft, but Scott hears Stiles’ quiet _thanks_ anyway.

* * *

“Are you ready?” Scott asks.

Stiles nods. Pauses. “Not really.”

“We’ll be okay.”

And Stiles’ mouth twitches in a way that means something like _yeah, cause we have to be_ before he says “Catch,” and tosses Scott the keys. He goes into the back of the jeep and stretches out, long legs pressed against the windows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Pho, Dea, C, and Kris for listening to me figure out plot points and complain about dialogue. Thanks to Emma for making sure my commas were in the right place. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @scottinpanties


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